Two Thousand, One Hundred, Seventy Six

Two Thousand, One Hundred, Seventy Four.
It used to be enough, to work, for one more.
I know what I am doing, I’m searching.
For meaning, for purpose.
I’m purging.

Releasing the need for acceptance
That lives down in my darkest bits.
I feed off of your likes and comments,
I need them to sustain.
Yet I cannot live off these contents.

For comments are really, my bane.
They are a motivative cocaine.
Every hit brings me higher,
Only to make me fall further.
Lower, than I was prior.

A like is equivalent to a shot.
It makes my faces start to feel hot.
For a second, I think it makes me thrive.
The next, it releases the my inner vomit.
Two Thousand One Hundred Seventy Five.